Healing And Crying
by Anonymoustache
Summary: Sherlock's been rescued, and Moriarty's dead. The dynamic deducing duo are back together (possibly in more ways than one) and everything is as it should be. However, before things can go back to normal, Sherlock (not to mention everyone else involved) has a lot of healing to do. Can things ever be the same? Johnlock, Mystrade. Sequel to Seeking And Finding.
1. Surfacing

"John. John, wake up."

John's eyes flew open. He squinted as bright light flooded his vision. His brain seemed to be pounding against his skull, and his stomach was turning unpleasantly.

Eventually, his eyes adjusted to the light, and his vision came into focus enough for him to see Mycroft Holmes standing in front of him.

"How are you feeling?"

John shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. His brain felt foggy, like he was trying to surface from a deep, deep sleep. "W-where…where 'm I?" he slurred, looking around him.

Mycroft sat down in a plush armchair near his bed. "St. Bartholomew's Hospital. You took a nasty blow to the head when you hit the side of the roof. Mild concussion…you'll probably have quite a headache for a few hours."

The army doctor closed his eyes as everything came rushing back to him.

Mycroft continued. "I found the…_information_ you acquired in your pocket, by the way…you were quite right, John, there was more than enough information on there to incriminate the man. However, that won't be a problem now," he stated firmly.

John struggled to sit up in the hospital bed. "James Moriarty is dead."

Mycroft winced at the hoarseness of John's voice. "Yes, he is. I wasn't on hand when it happened, but Gregory assures me that the body that fell from the roof was most definitely Moriarty's, and that he was most certainly killed by the fall. In fact, I believe the body is currently residing in the hospital morgue, under the watchful eye of our own Miss Molly Hooper."

John grinned weakly. "I bet she's thrilled to be reacquainted with her old boyfriend."

Mycroft gave him a small smile. "Quite."

Silence filled the room for several minutes. Finally, John spoke. "Okay, out with it, Mycroft."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Out with what?"

John sighed. "You _know_ what I'm asking about. You knew from the very moment you stepped into this room the question that first popped into my mind."

Mycroft nodded coolly. "You're very perceptive, Dr. Watson."

The army doctor rolled his eyes and snorted. "Please. I _live_ with a Holmes."

"Really? And just by observing Sherlock, you think you know how both our minds work?"

John frowned. "Mycroft. I need to know. How is he?"

Mycroft hesitated. "He's not well, John." He looked down and began to twirl his umbrella handle between his fingers. "Physically, he is recovering as best he can. But psychologically…he's damaged, and he's hurting. There's only so much the doctors can do."

John leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "Oh, God."

Nothing was said for several minutes. John felt consumed with guilt. Why hadn't he gotten there faster, figured out a quicker way in? He was a horrible friend.

"John." Mycroft's voice was soft.

"He wants to see you."

John's breath caught in his throat. "He…he does?"

"Yes. As soon as you feel up to it."

John leaned back into his pillows with a thump. Sherlock wanted to see him? After all the mistakes John made, all the times he didn't see clear signs of where the detective was and how to rescue him?

He had to see him.

Immediately.

"I'm up to it right now!" John said, trying to mask his feelings of guilt, and he swung his legs out of the bed. He immediately regretted it, however, as a wave of pain crashed through his buzzing head. However, John was no stranger to pain, and there was no way anyone in the world could keep him from seeing his best friend.

"John, be careful. You've barely recovered from your own injuries…" Mycroft said, a worried tone to his voice.

"I'm fine!" he hissed, ignoring the dull ache in his leg. Psychosomatic, he told himself. It's just psychosomatic…ignore it.

Mycroft looked like he was about to protest, but the look John gave him was enough to quell any words that came to mind. He rose from the armchair and, walking ahead of John, opened the door for him. John, true to form, shoved him out of the way. "Bugger off, Mycroft. I can open doors myself, thanks."

Mycroft smiled to himself. "Room 221, John. Make sure he's awake before you go in."

John grinned crookedly at him. "221. How appropriate," he said dryly, continuing down the hallway. He stopped, however, when he noticed that Mycroft wasn't following.

John frowned. "Aren't you coming?"

Mycroft shook his head regretfully. "No."

John sighed and rolled his eyes. "Okay, this stupid feud has gone on long enough. I swear, sometimes I really wonder…"

"John…" Mycroft trailed off. Something in his voice made John pause. Did Mycroft look…upset? "I can't come with you. Sherlock…Moriarty did something to him."

John snorted to cover up his worry. "Well, in case you hadn't noticed, Moriarty did lots of 'somethings' to him."

Mycroft shook his head sadly. "I am well aware of that, John, but the point is…"

"What? _What's_ the point, Mycroft?" John asked, feeling quite frustrated. "Because I'm really not seeing it."

If John didn't know better, he would have sworn those gleaming points of light were tears in Mycroft's eyes.

"He doesn't recognize me, John."

And in that moment, John felt his heart crack just a tiny bit more.

"W-what do you mean, he doesn't recognize you?"

Mycroft couldn't look John in the eye. "Perhaps I should rephrase." The knuckles of his hand were completely white, gripping the umbrella handle with such force John was surprised it didn't shatter. "He _recognizes_ me. But, somehow, at some point in time, Moriarty warped his mind. In his mind, I am an enemy. I am someone he fears, someone he hates more than anything."

John's mouth formed a perfect O. "Oh my God. Mycroft, how…how could he do that?"

Mycroft shook his head sadly. "It's the same trick he used with that little girl during the ambassador case. Moriarty used an old video of me and his own powers of human persuasion to create a fictional idea of me in Sherlock's tortured mind." A small tear fell from his eyelash, but he brushed it away as quickly as he could. "The first time I saw him again…when we rescued him from that basement…he hit me, John."

John looked at Mycroft's face. Sure enough, there was a small, purplish bruise around his eye. "God, Mycroft, I…I'm so sorry. Do…do you think he'll ever recover?"

Mycroft laughed hollowly. "Oh, the doctors say he has a full chance at recovery. But then, I'm a very powerful man who can put them out of a job at a moment's notice if they displease me. Therefore, I highly doubt they were giving me an honest opinion."

John nodded gently. "I'll find out for you. Do you think…" he trailed off, unable to say what he was thinking.

Mycroft searched into John's face for the question the army doctor wouldn't voice. "No, John, you'll be fine. I'm sure he'll recognize you." He looked down at his umbrella. "Sherlock has too many good memories of you for Moriarty to destroy you in his mind. But me…as you know, Sherlock and I have never gotten along very well. It wouldn't have been too hard for Moriarty to convince him that I…was not a friend."

John gave him a sympathetic glance. "I'm sorry. I'll…I'll see if I can get through to him."

Mycroft nodded, a strange look on his face. It was only later that John realized it was the look of someone trying desperately not to cry. It had seemed strange, John later realized, because that kind of look was not one he had ever seen on the elder Holmes's face before. And one that he never wanted to see again.


	2. Not Your Fault

221.

John stared at the three numbers, written carelessly on a piece of paper attached to the wall outside Sherlock's room. Those three numbers, the numbers in their address, hadn't really been too important to John. Until now.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked quietly on the door. "Hello?"

He heard a voice mumble, "Enter."

John hesitated and looked back at Mycroft, standing there in the hallway, umbrella clenched tightly in his hands. Mycroft tipped his head down towards John, staring straight at him, eyes penetrating John's every thought.

John gulped, and nodded, once. He turned back to the door and, placing a hand gently on the doorhandle, pushed it open.

It wasn't a bad room; in fact, it was rather nice. Mycroft had obviously pulled a few strings. There was a plush armchair by a large window, and Sherlock's bed was nearly the size of his own at home. The room was dark, the only sparse amount of light coming in thin strips from between the blinds. John reached out his hand to flip the light switch when…

"Don't."

John pulled his hand back quickly at the sound of the hoarse voice, _Sherlock's_ voice, coming from the bed. "Sherlock," he breathed quietly. "How…"

The consulting detective cut him off, rolling his eyes. "Yes, I am alive; yes, I am psychologically fine; yes, I am recovering physically; yes, I am still in considerable pain; no, I do not need to be comforted or pitied, thank you very much."

John smiled. "Same old Sherlock." He said fondly.

"So…" Sherlock carefully sat up. "How are _you_, John?"

John nodded absentmindedly. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Just worried about you, mainly."

Sherlock nodded, and winced at the motion. He propped himself up with his pillows, trying to fluff them up awkwardly with his splinted fingers. John stepped closer to the bed. "Here…let me." He took the pillows in his hands, efficiently fluffing them and getting a good look at Sherlock at the same time.

He was entirely too thin for John's liking. His face was covered with small cuts and bruises that looked to be slowly healing. Someone had lovingly washed his hair, cleaning it so that it shined. All the guilt came rushing back; why hadn't he been there to wash Sherlock's hair for him? John knew it ran deeper than the hair, but he pushed away his thoughts, wanting to focus on Sherlock for the time being.

John sat down in the armchair and leaned forward, looking deep into Sherlock's bluish-green eyes. Sherlock stared back, unreadable as ever.

John hesitated slightly. He knew that this conversation he was about to attempt hadn't gone well the last time. He would have to tread carefully. "Sherlock…do you need to talk? About…anything?" he asked quietly, trying not to insult or make Sherlock uncomfortable.

In return for his sentiment, John received a cold glare. It hadn't worked, then. John gulped as Sherlock opened his mouth to respond. "John, I have no need to talk about my 'feelings', as you are _well_ aware."

John winced. He knew exactly what Sherlock meant. He decided to leave it alone and maybe come back to it later when Sherlock was better, both physically and emotionally.

The conversation lapsed into an awkward silence, forcing John to confront the little voice whispering in his head.

_It's your fault._

_Don't be ridiculous, _John thought, chastising his mind, _I didn't kidnap him! I didn't torture him! It isn't my fault! Sherlock would say the same thing, if I asked._

_Would he really? After all, just before it happened the second time, you fought with him about his feelings. If he hadn't left the flat the next morning out of anger, Moriarty never would have gotten him. Sherlock would be safe and well on the way to recovery if not for you._

_Shut up! Shut up! _John told his brain, trying to hold in the tears that were threatening.

"John?"

John looked up, aware that his eyes were gleaming slightly in the faint light from between the window blinds.

"It isn't your fault, John."

John sighed. "Oh, Sherlock. I know it isn't. I'm just having a hard time convincing myself of that."

"John?"

"What, Sherlock?"

"Stay with me?"

John smiled, wiping away a single tear. "Always."

"How did it happen?"

"He fell off a roof, sir. I'm sorry, sir; it's really a loss."

"Oh, it's more than _his_ loss, General. You were in charge of his safety, correct?"

"Well, yes, sir, but none of us could have anticipated…"

"The point is, you failed to protect our greatest asset."

"But, sir…"

"General, do you know what happens to people who fail in this organization?"

"…no, sir."

"Well, let me show you."

"…No, sir! Please! I have a wife and children! Please, no…"

In a dark, abandoned parking complex somewhere just outside London, a single shot rang out in the night.

A tall, dark-haired man set his gun down on the floor and lit a cigarette, taking a long drag and staring up at the stars through the broken ceiling slats.

Interesting, he thought to himself, that for so long his boss's main focus had been destroying this Sherlock Holmes fellow, but in the end it had destroyed _him_.

No matter. He would have his revenge. True, Moriarty's criminal organization had been toppled by a single death. But he didn't need those minions. He would do it all himself…and he would take all the credit.

He would have revenge for Moriarty's death. He would destroy Sherlock Holmes, no matter what it took.

He stubbed out his cigarette on the dead man's body and, picking up his gun, casually walked out of the garage.

This time, he would not fail.


	3. Not In Love

John woke to a nurse placing a thin pillow behind his head. He looked up at her, and she smiled softly. "You fell asleep, sir. I thought you might be more comfortable this way. Sorry for waking you."

John shook his head and stretched. "It's fine…" he checked her name tag. "Louise. Thank you."

She nodded cheerfully and watched as John leaned forward to check Sherlock, forgetting that he wasn't the doctor on duty. He picked up Sherlock's hand gently in his and heard the nurse let out a small 'oh'.

He looked up at her. She blushed. "So he's your boyfriend then?" she said in a high-pitched voice.

John's eyes widened. "NO! No, no…sorry, it's just…he's my best friend. He…he almost got killed, and I…we really wondered for a while if he'd make it. I don't think I could live without him."

She smiled. "Sounds like a boyfriend to me."

John shook his head. "No, not gay, sorry…" he laughed uncomfortably, the words bringing back memories he really didn't want resurfacing at this moment in time. "In fact, do you…would you like to have coffee in the cafeteria? When you're done with your shift, that is."

Louise looked regretfully at him. "Sorry, no."

"Well…what about some other time?"

Louise pursed her lips and shook her head. "You're not really my type, sir. Sorry."

"What…Oh. OH." John was sure he was blushing. "Right then. Sorry about that. Didn't realize…"

Louise smiled sympathetically. "Oh, no, it's fine. I just…I guess earlier in our conversation I was trying to imply that I understand how you feel about him."

John sighed, slightly frustrated. "Look, we're not dating, okay? We aren't in love, we aren't sleeping together, we're just…not." he finished lamely.

She got an all-knowing look in her eye. "But you are. In love, that is. You can tell, you know." She hesitated ever so slightly, but went ahead with it. "Both of you."

John rolled his eyes. "And you can tell this how, if you'll excuse my bluntness?"

Louise shifted her weight. "Isn't it a bit obvious?" she said, reminding John so much of Sherlock it hurt. "You haven't left this room since you entered, almost twelve hours ago. You must be exhausted, yet you stayed with him. And when you took his hand, his heart monitor slowed to calm. And he smiled, just a bit."

John stood up, a bit shell-shocked, and she backed up, afraid she'd offended him. "Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to pry, sir."

"No, it's all right." he said, going over to her. He offered her his hand.

She looked down at it and back up at him, confused. "Sir?"

"I want to shake the hand of someone who isn't a private detective and was still able to deduce a simple thing that Sherlock couldn't." John said, gritting his teeth. "And don't call me sir, it makes me feel old. I'm John."

Louise grinned in satisfaction. "I knew it!" She took his hand and gave it a firm shake. "Thank you, John. I won't tell him, I promise." she said, gesturing to Sherlock.

John nodded gratefully. "Thanks."

She opened the door quietly. "Let me know if you need anything, okay?" And with that Louise left the room, closing the door gently behind her.

John scratched his head. Amazing, really, that a complete stranger could observe the truth about his feelings toward Sherlock, but the detective himself couldn't figure it out.

He sat down in the armchair again and yawned. Another nap couldn't go wrong, he thought to himself.

After all, he was only human, and he was still recovering. Sleep was good, no matter what Sherlock said about it.

* * *

"Tell me."

"P-please…please, I don't know, please…"

"You lie. Tell me, now."

"It was a hospital…in London…please…"

"Which hospital? Your life depends on it, so think carefully before you answer."

"…a-a hospital…I don't remember, I don't remember! Please!"

"Come now, Perkins. You were there, at the scene of the crime, the very day it happened. Tell me, or you die. Is that really a hard choice?"

"..S-St. b-b-Bartholomew's Hospital. Please, please, that was it, that was the hospital….please let me go, I don't know anything else!"

"And you're sure that he's being fixed up at the same place?"

"Yes, sir…please, please let me go…I have a steady job and two kids to support…"

He sighed. At least the last one had a good excuse for staying alive.

"But if I let you go, what will you do?"

"I'll stay quiet, I promise! I won't breathe a w-word to anyone! Really, sir!"

He sighed, again. This one was just as uninventive as the last five.

"Do you take me for an idiot?"

For the seventh time that day, a shot rang out in the abandoned parking garage. He sighed as the body of Geoffrey Perkins fell to the side. If he kept this up he'd need a lot more ammunition.

Thankfully, he finally, finally had what he needed.

He had what he needed to destroy Sherlock Holmes.

As he flipped through the papers on his desk, he thought that Jim would have been very proud of his cunning. He had the nurse's uniform, the fake release papers…even a different accent to get him through the doors of the hospital and to the man's room. Once there, he would sedate and take the detective, and leave the release papers in the file.

Hopefully the papers (secured from an old acquaintance of Moriarty's, named Milverton, who specialized in forgery and blackmail and owed the dead consulting criminal a favor) would confuse the officials in charge of the consulting detective long enough for him to make Sherlock feel like the lowest form of humankind and eventually kill him. In some nasty, evil way, of course.

He would have preferred to just shoot him, but he knew that in this case he had to make the man pay for Moriarty's death.

And, oh, he would pay. He would definitely pay.


	4. Nightmares

"No…no, no, please…no!"

John's eyes flew open. He looked up at Sherlock. The detective's face was rumpled in fear, tears running down his cheeks. "Please…no, not again!" He let out a hoarse scream. "Nononono!"

John grabbed Sherlock's hands. "Sherlock…shh, love, just calm down, please, you're going to be fine, he's gone…it's just a dream, just a nightmare…"

Sherlock whimpered, a heart-wrenching sound. "No…no, don't hurt John, please, I'll do as you ask…just don't hurt him…"

John stiffened. What had Moriarty said to him?

Sherlock sobbed. "N-no…don't hurt John…h-hurt me instead…"

Silent tears began to slip from John's eyes. Sherlock had gone through all this because he believed he was protecting John? When all along…

"Oh, God…" John whispered. "This is all my fault…"

"JOHN!" Sherlock screamed, and shot straight up in bed. His eyes flew open and he looked around wildly. Figuring out where he was, Sherlock leaned back, panting and sweating from his nightmare.

John squeezed Sherlock's hands lightly. "Sherlock," he said in a hoarse voice. "You're okay. You're fine. I'm here…"

"It's…John, you asked me earlier…if I needed to talk," Sherlock said, tear tracks glistening on his cheekbones. "I'm…I'm not okay. Please, John…can…can I talk to you? Anything…I just…I'm…" Sherlock began to shake violently. "John…please…"

John had never heard Sherlock sound so broken. He stood up carefully and propped himself up on the bed, being careful not to bump the other man's injuries. He leaned back on one of the pillows and offered his arms to Sherlock.

The detective let out one thin, hoarse sob and leaned into John's warm embrace. John whispered soothing words and caressed his silky brown curls with his free hand.

"Shhh, it's okay, I'm here, Sherlock…It's okay, let it out…" John dropped a light kiss to his forehead. "Whenever you want to talk, I'm here."

Sherlock relaxed into John's arms and, gradually, his shuddering subsided. Finally, when he was completely still, he began to talk. "He…he used you against me. Every time. He said…he said I had a choice; He would hurt you, unless I would take your place. I…I thought he really had you…I didn't want to lose you, John, I had no choice!" he began to cry again.

John pulled him close, fiercely carding his hand through his hair. "Shh…I know…and what you did was amazing, to live through all of that. I'm so very proud of you, Lock. I…I love you, so much it hurts." He almost choked. "I was so scared. I thought…you weren't coming back." His voice broke on the last words.

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath. "I love you too much, John. When I was there…my only thoughts were how much I missed you…and how I had to get home, to get back to you." He bit his lip. "His reason…" Sherlock trailed off, hesitating.

John put his hand in Sherlock and gently squeezed. "Get it all out, love."

"Moriarty's reasoning was that I would have to live with the fact that all the pain, the injuries, the damage, would be because I didn't want you to have to go through it instead." Sherlock's head dropped down. "He was trying to prove a point Mycroft has been making for years; caring is not an advantage. Love causes pain."

John's face contorted into a look of horror. "Oh my God. Sherlock…Oh, love, I'm so sorry. I should have found you sooner…"

"Shut the fuck up."

John's head went back up, surprise on his face.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, properly abashed. "But, John…this isn't your fault. You must believe me when I say that I would have lived through that one hundred times over to protect you, even if you weren't there."

He leaned over to a shell-shocked John and gently kissed his lips, grasping his hands like a lifeline.

"I love you too much for anything to happen to you, real or not."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him in, kissing him fiercely.

Finally, after several minutes, they broke away, gasping for air. Sherlock leaned back in bed, chest heaving.

They lay like that for some time, until the morning sun began to fill the room, casting a golden glow over the two of them, tangled together, lips just barely touching.

"John?"

"What, Sherlock?"

Sherlock interlocked his splinted fingers with John's. "You were worth it."

John broke away and shook his head adamantly. "No, Sherlock. Nothing was worth what you went through."

Sherlock looked at John gently, his blue-green eyes filled with so much love John felt as though he was drowning in it. His next words were words that John would remember for the rest of his life.

"You were."

* * *

Mycroft swirled the vodka around his shot glass with a toothpick. He didn't normally drink; but tonight he'd had three shots already and had no plans to stop anytime soon.

Sherlock hated him.

After his conversation with John, it was time for desperate measures. He skipped the cake and went straight for alcohol.

He needed to get drunk.

Anthea had strongly advised him against it. "Meetings at five and seven tomorrow, sir. I don't think you'll appreciate a morning hangover."

For the first time since he had hired her, Mycroft told Anthea to fuck off.

And, as an added thought, told her to cancel both meetings and anything else by way of a family emergency.

He threw back his current shot and ordered another one.

Suddenly, someone pulled out the chair beside him and sat down. Mycroft turned and found himself face to face with his boyfriend Greg Lestrade.

"Mycroft. Anthea texted me and told me where you were." He looked at the five empty shot glasses in front of him with surprise and concern written on his face. "What the hell are you doing? You don't drink!"

The bartender brought him another shot and he downed it in one, earning a look of shock from his boyfriend. "What does it look like? I'm getting drunk," he slurred. He banged the shot glass back down on the counter.

Greg sniffed him and wrinkled his nose, waving a hand in front of his face. "When was the last time you showered?"

"Been…at Bart's, mostly, for the last five days…Sherlock hates me." Mycroft said miserably, and hiccoughed. He yawned widely.

"Okay, that's it." Greg stood up and grabbed Mycroft's shoulders, yanking him down off the stool. He grabbed the man's coat off the one next to him and, throwing it over his shoulders, propelled him towards the door. "I'm taking you back to my flat, and you're going to have a shower and a good night's sleep. God knows you need it."

Mycroft stumbled out into the street and hailed a cab.

Greg helped Mycroft into the car and got in on the other side.

The cab driver turned and looked back at Greg and Mycroft. "I don't do drunks, mate. Sorry."

Greg sighed. "Please. Just this once? His brother's in the hospital and he…he's really stressed about his recovery. I just need to get him back to my flat so he can sleep it off."

The cabbie hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. But just this once, mind you. For the brother."

Greg nodded, relieved. "Thank you."

Mycroft leaned over and rested his head on Greg's shoulder. "Gregory…" he slurred. "Life is not very fair."

Greg put an arm around his drunk boyfriend. "My mum used to say that the beauty of grace is that it makes life not fair."

They rode in silence the rest of the way.

* * *

A/N; The first part of this chapter was written while listening to Permanent by David Cook. If you listen to it, I can promise that the feels will be brutal. :D

Greg's comment about 'the beauty of grace is that it makes life not fair' comes from the song Be My Escape by Relient K.


	5. As Long As We Love Each Other

A/N; Hello, everybody! I apologize for being so slow on updates…school started, which makes my schedule completely crazy :P

I just want to remind everyone why I'm doing this. I write fanfiction for two people; me and you. The readers are very important to me, as are the followers, and the favoriters, and _especially_ the reviewers.

So, for those of you who like to review, here's a tip for you;

_Constructive Criticism; comments and/or suggestions that promote improvement or development_

This means that if you leave a long review telling me all the things you hated about my story and my writing style with no suggestions about how to fix it, I will henceforth ignore you and your stated opinion.

Ta!

-Anonymoustache

* * *

John woke up slowly to feel a hand tapping him gently on the shoulder.

"John…John?"

He lifted his head to see Sherlock staring down at him, hesitant and awkward. John ran a hand over his eyes, trying to regain consciousness from his deep sleep. "Wha' is it, Sh'lock?" he slurred.

"I just…" Sherlock's eyes traveled to his hands, which were working furiously in the blanket. "I…I…"

John sat up, quite awake now. Sherlock _never_ stuttered…was this a psychological side effect, he wondered? Or something more?

"What is it, Lock?" he asked gently, preparing himself for another deep talk.

"Well…" Sherlock took a deep breath. "Remember our…_previous_ conversation?"

"Yeah?"

Sherlock looked directly into John's eyes. "Did you really mean it?"

"Mean what, Sherlock?" John cocked his head to the side.

"That…that you love me," he said, all in a rush.

John's eyes widened. "Of course I did!" he exclaimed.

"But…"

"But what, you dolt? I love you, Sherlock…how else am I supposed to say it?"

Sherlock's voice lowered to a mere whisper. "You're not gay. You're not my date. You've said it so many times it's practically an ancient myth. John Watson is not gay. So…how?"

John nodded. "I know. But you…you're _you_, Sherlock."

Sherlock tilted his head this time. "But how…"

John leaned forward, close to Sherlock, and took both his hands. "I'm only gay for _you_, Sherlock Holmes. No other man-hell, no other _woman_-could compare to you." He looked into Sherlock's beautiful, insecure green-blue eyes. "In the competition for my heart, you win hands down, Sherlock Holmes."

"But, John…how is this going to work?"

John raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock shifted his weight ever so slightly. "Well…you're an invalided army doctor with a psychosomatic limp who gets nightmares, and I'm a high-functioning sociopath detective with a rather large ego…or so I've been informed. Can this really work? You and me?"

John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and shook him gently. "Hey! I love you, you daft git. It won't all just fall into place; we'll have to work at it. But you know what? We'll make it work."

"I love you, Sherlock." John said with as much conviction as possible. He took Sherlock's hands in his again, holding them tightly, trying to send all his love through that one connection. "As long as we love each other, it'll all work out okay."

They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, still clutching each other's hands like a life raft. Finally, John cleared his throat. "I've been meaning to ask…erm…"

He thought for a moment as Sherlock's penetrating gaze focused on his face, trying to read his question. Mycroft had specifically told him to find out how and why Sherlock was so adamantly hateful of him. How was he supposed to phrase that? _Oh, Sherlock, I'm so glad you're alive…and by the way, why do you hate your brother and how did Moriarty convince you that he was a person you should dislike?_

This was going to be more difficult than it sounded.

"Uh…how's Mycroft?" he asked weakly. "I haven't talked to him…yet."

_Great, John. Very smooth. You have such a way with words._

_Shut up, inner voice! _John thought irritably._ This has to work!_

Sherlock scowled. "I hate him. Don't talk to him, John. He's a dangerous bastard, and we never should have trusted him."

John decided to play to Sherlock's thoughts. "Really? So what did he do? Steal the whole of Britain's chocolate cake supply?"

Sherlock laughed meanly. "Oh, no. Though that does sound like something the great fatty would do."

John winced. Poor Mycroft. Of all the things Sherlock said about the man, calling him fat was probably the worst, mostly because Mycroft wasn't fat…at least, John and Greg didn't think so.

Sherlock continued. "No. You want to hear what my brother did to me?"

John stayed still, assuming it was a rhetorical question. When Sherlock didn't continue, he nodded. "Sure."

"He gave me up to Moriarty."

John's mind seemed to freeze in that moment. "Sorry?"

"He did," Sherlock insisted. "While Moriarty was torturing me, he showed me a tape of Mycroft talking with that irritating assistant of his. Talking about how great it was to finally send me away."

John nodded carefully. Now they were getting somewhere. "So…what did the tape show, exactly?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft was in his office, and his assistant-"

John broke in. "Anthea," he said.

"Whatever," Sherlock said, waving a hand carelessly. "Anyways…he was asking her if I'd been 'delivered'. She replied affirmatively. Then, he…" Sherlock gulped.

John gently squeezed Sherlock's hands. "It's okay, 'Lock. I've got you."

Sherlock took another deep breath. "He said it was good. And that if I came back the same as before, he would have to take…drastic measures." Sherlock finished in a quiet, sad whisper.

John nodded. "Okay. Thank you for trusting me with this, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyebrow went up. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well…I don't know. I'm just…I just love you so much, Sherlock."

Sherlock squeezed John's hands back. "I love you too, idiot."

Sherlock leaned back into the pillows again, finally relaxed. In a few minutes he was snoring.

John pulled out his phone; it had vibrated with a text alert while Sherlock was speaking. He unlocked it and peered down at the message.

**Supreme Ruler Of The Universe**

**3:31 AM**

_Meet me in the cafeteria. Nine thirty this morning. Don't be late. Come informed. –MH_

John sighed. The things he did for Sherlock.

* * *

John stepped carefully out of the room, trading with Louise. "Make sure he doesn't try and get out of bed, and watch his vitals, and give him some water every fifteen minutes…"

"John," Louise said patiently. "I _know_. I'm trained for this, remember?"

"Right, right…sorry." John said, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. You're only going to the cafeteria for an hour or so…he'll be fine that long. I'll make sure of it."

John breathed deeply. "I know. Okay…okay. I'll go…it'll be good for both of us."

Louise nodded, smiling. John headed down the hall, towards the cafeteria.

At the last minute, though, he turned back. "Hey, Louise…"

"What, John?"

"…I told him."

She nodded sagely. "Good."

"He needs you."


	6. What About Molly Hooper

John looked around the cafeteria. Mycroft was supposed to meet him here this morning…so where was he?

He snagged a table near the back, where they wouldn't be overheard, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, just as John was checking his watch and wondering if he had gotten the wrong time, Mycroft Holmes appeared beside the table.

"John," he said curtly.

John's eyes widened and his mouth gaped.

Mycroft was wearing _jeans_.

No. Way.

He closed his eyes and rubbed the lids, then opened them again.

Nope.

Mycroft Holmes, king of expensive suits and monogrammed umbrellas, was wearing an old rugby t-shirt and _jeans_.

John was fairly sure the universe had just imploded.

Right behind him was Greg Lestrade, wearing a casual white shirt with dark jeans and a harried look.

"Sorry we're late," said Greg, "Mycroft decided to get drunk last night and woke up this morning with a bugger of a hangover."

"Apologies for my attire," Mycroft said smoothly. "I was…unable to return to my own flat due to certain complications."

Greg snorted and took a sip of the juice he had picked up from the breakfast bar. "Meaning that he smelled like a bin and was practically trying to rip my clothes off."

John had never seen Mycroft look embarrassed before, but it was highly amusing.

"Yeah, well, brushing past Mycroft's drunken powers of seduction…"

Greg choked on his orange juice. John shot him a look and continued. "I've got some information for you, Mycroft."

"Good." Mycroft said smoothly, and took his seat at the table, Greg pushing in beside him.

John leaned in, speaking in a quiet voice so as not to be overheard. "Sherlock told me that when Moriarty was…" he broke off, unsure of how to continue.

"Speak freely, John," Mycroft urged. "Gregory and I can handle it, I'm sure."

John took a deep breath. "When Moriarty was torturing Sherlock, he showed him a video. Sherlock said it showed you and Anthea talking about…about Sherlock having been sent away. And that, if he came back the same, you would have to…" John's voice cracked and he broke off, trying not to display his emotions too much.

Mycroft's eyes widened near the last part. "Go on," he practically whispered.

"You would have to take desperate measures."

Mycroft cursed heavily, causing both John and Greg to give him identical looks of shock. "What is it?" Greg asked, shell-shocked. Mycroft _never_ swore.

"A few months ago, around the time of Sherlock's capture, one of the CCTV videos from Sherlock's file disappeared." Mycroft shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable. "I regret to say that, with Sherlock in mortal peril, I didn't pay the small theft much attention."

"…and you think it was that video he showed Sherlock?" John asked.

Mycroft nodded. "Unfortunately, yes."

"But what about the content of the video?" Greg asked. "I mean, John said…rather, Sherlock said, that it showed you and Theo-"

"Anthea," John reminded him. Honestly…couldn't anyone remember it?

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Greg said. "But he said it showed you and her talking about sending him away. When was that taken?"

Mycroft's face carried a look of genuine sadness. "That video was a conversation between Anthea and myself after I sent Sherlock to drug rehabilitation for the first time."

John felt utter shock. "Sherlock went to rehab?"

Mycroft nodded. "Yes. When he was in his twenties, his drug use became so bad, I had no choice but to send him there. I certainly couldn't do it myself; he and I have never been the best of siblings, as you well know."

John felt the cold to his core. "He…he never told me."

Greg shrugged. "Don't feel bad. He never tells anyone about his past, for some reason. I've known him for ten years and I don't know him any better than you do."

"Ironic, seeing as you're his boyfriend," Mycroft said smugly to John, raising his eyebrow in a suggestive manner.

"Yeah, a bit…" John trailed off, a look of confusion dawning on his face. "Hang on; how do you know that?"

Mycroft laughed. "Did you really think you could hide that fact from me of all people?"

Greg watched them in a stupor. "Wait…so you two _finally_ got it on?"

John rolled his eyes. "Really funny, Greg. '_Finally_'…whatever."

"No, seriously!" Greg exclaimed. "There's a gigantic betting pool at the Yard about it. And if I'm correct, I've just won a fairly substantial amount of money." He grinned. "I knew it was going to happen sometime or other."

John's eyes went wide. "Really? You were all betting on when we'd start dating?"

Greg nodded. Mycroft chimed in. "If it makes you feel any better, Gregory told me Anderson voted against you two."

John nodded once, trying to mask his awkward surprise. "Right. Yeah. Much better, thanks very much."

Greg grinned. "Look on the bright side, mate. We're both dating a Holmes brother. If they get on our nerves, we can go down to the pub and complain about them together."

John laughed while Mycroft gave Greg a freezing glare.

The conversation lapsed into an awkward silence.

"So…" John said. "What d'you want me to do, then?"

"That…I don't know." Mycroft said. He was obviously uncomfortable with not having answers for once. "If you could possibly talk to him, try to convince him that I'm on his side…"

John sighed. "I can try. But you know him as well as I do, Mycroft; he won't listen."

Greg nodded. "He's got a point. Besides, what if he thinks John's in league with you?"

John and Mycroft both stared at him.

Greg coughed. "From Sherlock's point of view."

John shook his head and turned to Mycroft. "He's right. It wouldn't be so great for me to go into my new boyfriend's room promoting his worst enemy."

Now it was Greg and Mycroft's turn to stare.

"Oh, come on!" John said. "You both know what I meant."

Greg shrugged. "He's got a point. We should send someone in there who isn't too closely tied to Sherlock, but that he knows."

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I think that would be wise."

"But…who do we send?"

The group lapsed into silence, all stumped once again.

After five minutes, Greg finally spoke up.

"What about Molly Hooper?"


	7. Risking Everything For You

Molly sighed. This day had been completely crazy. What with the autopsy on the Harvey murders, not to mention the Creaple case that she'd been working with the Yard on, she'd put in almost two hours of overtime today. She was very much ready to head home for a good romantic comedy and a cuddle with Toby.

Of course, all her hopes for a relaxing evening were crushed when she saw three certain men walking down the hall towards her office.

Resigning herself to chaos, she stepped out to meet them.

"Hello!" she said cheerily, trying not to show her exhaustion. "How's Sherlock doing?"

"He's getting there," John said. "But…" he trailed off and looked over at Mycroft, unsure of how to continue.

"Miss Hooper, correct?" Mycroft picked up Molly's hand gently and kissed it. "So good to _finally_ meet you. I've heard so much about you. I'm Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes."

Molly blushed and giggled. "Well, thank you, Mr. Holmes. I've heard about you too."

"If it was any information from Sherlock, it was probably rude, incorrect, and involved the word 'cake'."

Molly shrugged. "He's Sherlock…it's just the way he is."

Mycroft nodded. "Now, Miss Hooper…the reason we are here is, in fact, about Sherlock."

Molly tilted her head. "What does he need?" she asked.

Greg broke in. "We've had a spot of…_difficulty_ with his recovery."

"He thinks Mycroft is his worst enemy; doesn't trust him a smidge," John explained. "Moriarty showed him a certain video and warped the truth. Even Sherlock isn't strong enough to resist psychological torture."

Molly winced. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, giving Mycroft a sad glance. "But I really don't know how I can help."

"If you were to talk to Sherlock…convince him that I'm his friend and not an enemy…we would be eternally grateful," Mycroft said in an earnest voice.

"What makes you think he'll listen to me?" she asked, doubtful that it would work.

Mycroft shifted his weight, slightly uncomfortable in his borrowed clothes. "Sherlock has quite a bit of faith in you. Remember before the fall? I heard all about how much you helped him, with the fake records and death certificate. He trusts you much more than you know."

"But…what about you, John?"

John looked around, then took a deep breath. "You're going to hear it sometime, so I guess I can tell you; Sherlock and I…" he trailed off, hoping she'd get the point.

"Oh. OH. Okay…so you're both…"

"Yeah, they finally got it on." Greg said.

John shot him a glare. "Anyways, we don't want me to talk to him about it, because I'm too close to him."

Molly shook her head, uncertain. "I don't understand."

Mycroft sighed. "Miss Hooper, allow me to explain." He cleared his throat and continued. "Sherlock has what one might call a hierarchy of people he trusts. At the top of the list sit John and Gregory. Next is Mrs. Hudson, and then _you_, Miss Hooper."

John piped up. "Greg and I can't try and convince him, because from his point of view, it would be like we were siding with his worst enemy. Mrs. Hudson as well. Sherlock has so few people he inexplicably trusts that we can't risk him doubting any of the three of us."

Molly stopped, feeling cold. "But you can risk me."

John raised an eyebrow, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, that the three people Sherlock trusts the most won't risk themselves to help him, because they're too afraid of ruining their relationship with him. But you're willing to risk _my_ relationship with him." Molly said, feeling more daring than ever before.

"Well…" Mycroft trailed off, unsure of what to say.

The group lapsed into silence.

Molly spoke in a quiet voice. "You've all done so much to protect him from evil. And right now, he desperately needs your help. But, you won't help him, because you're too selfish."

John broke in with a heated voice. "We're not being…"

"Yes, you are." Molly said, voice stronger now. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. He needsyou-_all_ of you-but you won't help him because you're too afraid that he'll hate you for it."

Mycroft looked at the ground awkwardly. "It was never our intention to seem selfish…"

"I know it wasn't. But, if you'll excuse my bluntness, Mr. Holmes, what do you think Sherlock will say once I've told him? Has it ever occurred to you that he might question why Greg or John or Mrs. Hudson didn't tell him? Did you ever ponder that he might question his faith in the three of _you_?"

"So you will tell him?" John asked.

"Of course I will," Molly said pointedly. "I'm not afraid to risk everything to help Sherlock Holmes."

She pushed past them and walked in the direction they had come from.

* * *

The three of them headed to the cafeteria right after. John ordered three coffees, which were brought to their table by a tall, muscular blonde waiter who looked familiar to John, but he couldn't place him. Strange. He pushed a drink towards each of them and they sat in the quiet room, contemplating what had just happened.

"Molly used to be so _quiet_." Greg said incredulously, after five minutes of silence. "Got a bit more backbone, huh?"

"She was right." John said hoarsely, slowly stirring the spoon in his coffee, but not bothering to drink it. The hospital coffee was disgusting, everyone knew that.

"What? No…no, she wasn't!" Greg exclaimed. He turned to Mycroft. "She wasn't right, was she?"

Mycroft thought for a moment and sipped his coffee, trying to ignore the disgusting, rancid flavor. "John?"

John turned to look at the two of them. His eyes had a haunted depth to them. "Don't you see? It's all true, what she said. We were so worried about our own relationships with Sherlock, that we didn't pause to think about what was best for _him_."

Greg seemed to stop for a moment. "I…I…" he broke off, a look of horror coming over his face. "Oh, God…you're right, John. This is…we're a right bunch of prats. Jesus."

Mycroft looked more than a little upset. He took a large sip of his coffee, trying to drown his sorrows with caffeine. "I apologize. This was my idea." _Ugh. This coffee is revolting._

"No, no, Mycroft…it's all our faults, not just yours." John said heavily.

They fell back into silence.

"So what do we do now?"

John straightened his back. "We persevere." He stood up, chucking his still-full coffee cup in the garbage. "Come on, let's go see Sherlock. Molly should be there; we need to help her convince him. Three voices are better than one."

Greg nodded and stood, throwing his full coffee away as well. He turned to Mycroft. "Mycroft…" he trailed off, watching his boyfriend carefully. The man seemed to be sweating and his face had turned a delicate greenish color.

Mycroft had an awful look on his face. "He…I…"

Greg looked concerned. "Mickey?" he asked carefully.

John turned back around, heading towards them. "What's wrong?"

"I…" Mycroft tried to twist around in the booth, to no avail. "I don't feel very well, Gregory…"

And with those words, Mycroft collapsed sideways onto the cafeteria floor.


	8. Go For Sherlock

"What was it?"

The doctor leaned over and checked his clipboard. "Well, at first, we thought it was food poisoning. However, we ruled it out after Mr. Holmes went into anaphylactic shock."

Greg gripped the chair in front of him so hard his knuckles turned white. "What?" he asked in his most dangerous policeman voice. "Why was I not told when this occurred?"

"Inspector, it was over so quickly we really thought…"

Greg's face went paper white. "Oh, God…you mean…"

The doctor read into his face and abruptly shook his head. "Oh, no, no, no, Inspector…Mr. Holmes is very much alive and well. He's currently recovering under the watchful eye of a team of nurses."

Greg let out a great whoosh of breath as John questioned the doctor. "Then…what caused it?"

The doctor (Doctor Stevens, John noted as he quickly checked the name tag) looked troubled. "That's just the thing, sir…There's evidence that suggests some kind of poison, but we cannot figure out what kind. It seems to be, at this point…unknown."

"Then…how can you treat it?" John asked, concerned. "I'm a doctor, and I'm well aware that it's never a good idea to treat a patient when you don't know what they've ingested."

"That's what's strange, sir…" Doctor Stevens said, looking confused. "A few minutes after Mr. Holmes went into shock, he abruptly came right back out of it. At first we thought he had…passed away…"

Greg's face turned grayish-white at that.

"…but then, he woke up and seemed completely fine." The doctor shrugged. "We sent a sample of his blood to the lab, gave him some simple unreactive pain meds, and he's doing fine."

John raised both eyebrows. "But…how could something knock him out that quickly and then…" he trailed off.

Greg poked him. "John? What is it?"

"The coffee." John looked up, eyes intense. "Greg, the _coffee_. Remember?"

The doctor put up a hand. "Wait. What coffee?"

"When we were in the cafeteria earlier, all three of us got coffees. Only Mycroft drank a sip of his, though..."

Greg's eyes went wide. "And neither of us did, so we weren't affected!"

"Exactly." John said grimly.

"It was coffee from the hospital cafeteria?" the doctor asked, alarmed. He turned and hurried off in the direction of the cafeteria, intent on saving anyone else.

Greg looked confused. "But who would want to poison us? I don't have any cases right now, Mycroft…well, I could see someone wanting to poison him. But you? Sherlock's in the hospital right now…there can't be anyone who…"

John snapped his fingers. "What if Moriarty's web isn't quite dissolved yet?" he said slowly.

Greg nodded. "Of course. That blonde waiter…I've never seen him before. Do you think he's part of Moriarty's movement?"

John nodded. He stopped for a moment, thinking. "But if they went for us first, that means they would go for…" he trailed off. A look of panic shot across his face.

"Sherlock."

Without another word, John turned and sprinted down the hallway.

* * *

A knock sounded on Sherlock's door.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Enter."

A tall, blonde male nurse came in the room. He smiled widely at the detective. "Ready to go for your lunch?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Isn't lunch usually delivered to my room?"

"We thought maybe it'd be good for you to start moving around…getting you ready for release, y'know!" The blonde nurse smiled in a winning manner.

Sherlock tilted his head. Something wasn't right about this. However, since 'The Incident' as he referred to it, his deducing powers had been overactive. He was probably just overthinking.

_Don't be so suspicious of everyone, Sherlock. Jesus… _

"Ready, Mr. Holmes?" The smiling nurse had a wheelchair with him. He gestured to it.

Sherlock shook his head. "I can make it without the wheelchair, thank you," he said snappily. What did this nurse think him…a cripple?

"Oh, no, no, no, Mr. Holmes…I insist." The nurse almost seemed to be leering at him now.

Sherlock sighed grumpily. "Oh, very well…if it's really necessary." He carefully pulled himself up from the bed and situated himself in the chair.

The nurse quickly turned it around, practically throwing it onto two wheels, and pushed the detective out the door.

Out in the hall stood Molly Hooper, looking strangely at the blonde nurse.

_Who is this? And why does he look so familiar?_

"Do I know you from somewhere?" she asked confusedly.

"Uh, no, I don't think so, miss," the nurse said quickly. He turned and began to wheel Sherlock away.

"Wait, wait…I need to talk to Sherlock!"

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Molly," he said, eyes glinting. "Putting on weight again? New relationship must agree with you."

"Actually, no…I broke up with Jentry last night."

Sherlock frowned. _Damn. I'm not working today._

The nurse broke in. "So sorry to break up this happy little reunion, but Mr. Holmes needs to get to lunch. Could you come back later, Miss…"

"Hooper. Molly Hooper," she said quickly. "And it's rather urgent…Sherlock, it's about your brother…"

"Molly…" Sherlock started.

The nurse interrupted. "Well, Miss Hooper, you can come back in about two hours. Mr. Holmes will be available then." He turned the wheelchair away abruptly. "Good day."

Molly watched them leave, confused. Why did that nurse look so familiar? She turned away, still wracking her brains for the name of this mystery man, and headed for the cafeteria…

_The cafeteria?_

* * *

The nurse sped the chair and Sherlock down the hall. Sherlock felt slightly confused, but figured that he must still be addled from the drugs. He leaned back, resigned.

Until he realized something rather obvious.

"Excuse me, Mr…" he trailed off.

The nurse made no answer. His teeth were gritted as he wheeled the detective down the hall faster than Sherlock thought a wheelchair could go.

Sherlock continued anyways. "You must be new, because I'm quite sure that the cafeteria is in the opposite direction."

"We're not going to the cafeteria, Mr. Holmes," the nurse said. He sounded almost…threatening.

"But…I was under the impression that I was going to lunch." Sherlock said, confused.

"Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. You're not going to eat…you're going to _burn_. I'm going to burn the _heart_ out of you."

Sherlock's eyes flew wide open. He twisted around in his seat and stared, shocked, at the nurse, now wearing a look of maliciousness across his face. "You…"

"Sleep now, Mr. Holmes," the nurse said, fake concern laced in his voice. "After all, you'll need your strength later."

He stabbed a thick needle into the side of Sherlock's neck. The detective's eyes fluttered. "You…John…how…"

Sherlock's head lolled backwards onto his shoulders and he spoke no more.


	9. We'll Find Him

_A/N; A million, billion, trillion, gazillion thanks to Johnlock13 for her invaluable advice on all things British. In this chapter, she pointed out my mistake (purse-handbag-etc...), not to mention all the other times she's helped me. Thank you, thank you, thank you!_

_Because I am so very helpless sometimes :P Remember, folks, constructive crit is greatly appreciated. As long as it's constructive...but we won't go into that here ;D_

_Thanks to any reviewers! You make it worth my while. And if you're going to favorite or follow one of my stories...why not drop a review? Reviews mean more to me than triple brutal bloody homicides mean to Sherlock. That's a lot, people ;)_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

_The cafeteria?_

_But if that's the cafeteria, then where…_

_Oh, no._

_Sherlock._

Molly turned and looked down the hall after the nurse. "Sherlock…" she whispered.

_What do I do?_

Something was glinting in the nurse's hand; something that looked sharp and ominous. As he raised it, she saw it was a thick, gleaming silver needle.

The world seemed to slide into slow motion. The nurse raised the needle high into the air behind the detective. Molly opened her mouth, intending to yell in warning.

The nurse stabbed the syringe into Sherlock's neck and depressed the plunger.

Sherlock's head lolled back onto his shoulders, face pale. His eyes connected with Molly's for a few moments, then closed, dead to the world.

Molly's vision seemed to turn red. This nurse, this disgusting _creature_, was trying to kidnap her dearest friend.

_Get ready to feel my wrath, you bastard._

Molly was, normally, a peace-loving person. She was the shy pathologist who enjoyed cuddling with her cat and romantic comedies. She'd never harmed a fly, before now.

To hell with the shy pathologist attitude.

Molly ran up and tackled the blonde nurse from behind.

He let out a yell of surprise and tried to shake her off, to no avail.

"Let him go!" she screamed, hitting him over the head with her handbag and clawing at his face.

They tussled for a moment, the nurse trying to get her off him, Molly trying to buy some time. Sherlock lay passed out in the wheelchair in front of them.

Molly screamed as she felt something sharp cut into her arm and let go. The nurse shook her off and, grabbing Sherlock's limp body out of the wheelchair, slung the detective over his shoulder and headed out the door.

_No…_

_Sherlock…_

Molly couldn't move. Her vision went hazy as she watched the nurse disappear from view.

She heard footsteps behind her. People around her, asking her if she was all right.

_Sherlock._

John Watson was beside her suddenly, yelling something about Moriarty.

She couldn't hear him.

_Sherlock._

The floor beneath her was splattered with drops of blood. Scarlet streams ran down her arm, a gaping cut stretching from upper shoulder to the crook of her elbow.

Someone gently led John Watson away. His screams echoed in her ears.

_Sherlock._

Suddenly, someone was there, pressing a handkerchief to the slash and whispering comforting words.

Molly looked up to see Greg Lestrade kneeling beside her.

"Molly," he said sympathetically.

"He…he was here," she whispered. "He came for Sherlock. And he took him. Greg, he took him! Sherlock…" silent tears were sliding down her face.

Greg nodded calmly. "I know, Molly. We'll find him."

"We'll find him."

* * *

"Mycroft…Oh, god, this just can't be happening…Jesus…"

"I know how you feel, John," Mycroft said. He was sitting up in his hospital bed, hands clasped together. The doctor had brought John in to calm him down after he screamed at Molly Hooper.

"I have to talk to Molly."

Mycroft hesitated. "John…don't you think you should give her some time to get over what just happened? She was wounded, both physically and psychologically, I'm sure. Not to mention your…slight overreaction."

John headed towards the door. "No. I have to know, Mycroft. I have to know that it was her blood and not Sherlock's."

Mycroft raised his eyebrow as John looked at him, eyes hollow.

"As horrible as it sounds, I want it to be her's. Because if it's Sherlock's, there's no hope for him or me."

* * *

"Molly?"

Molly looked up from where she was sitting at Greg's desk. Her eyes were puffy and red and her arm had been bandaged. Across from her was Greg, looking over paperwork, but his mind was obviously elsewhere. He barely glanced at John, obviously not very approving of his screaming at Molly.

John took a calming breath.

_Take it easy, Watson. She's just had a shock._

"Hello, Molly. How are you?"

John winced. So much for tact.

_Idiot. How's she supposed to respond to that?_

"I'm okay," she said miserably, sniffling a bit.

"Is it…would it be too much to ask…"

Molly shook her head. "I'm ready," she said shakily. "I'll tell you everything I saw."

John nodded. He sat down carefully, with a reassuring glance at Greg to show him he wasn't going to scream again, and folded his hands in his lap.

"I…came down to visit with Sherlock. About…about Mr. Holmes," she said, voice shaking ever so slightly. "When I got to his room, there was a tall, blonde nurse standing there with Sherlock in a wheelchair. He said…"

"Hang on," John said, interrupting quickly. "A tall, blonde nurse?" He looked over at Greg, who was now following the conversation with deep interest.

Greg's eyes widened. "…the waiter." He looked at John, pupils dark. "The one who gave Mycroft the poisoned coffee…he was tall and blonde!"

Molly stopped, looking confused. "Sorry…poisoned coffee?" she asked.

John nodded. "Today in the cafeteria someone poisoned Mycroft's coffee."

Molly's face paled. "Oh my goodness. Is he…"

"He's fine," Greg reassured her. "But we got a good look at the guy who delivered it, and the waiter that we think poisoned the coffee fits your description of the man who took Sherlock."

Molly's eyes widened. "So…"

John finished her sentence. "…So the man poisoned Mycroft to get us out of the way for a bit. Then, he went up to drug Sherlock and take him…somewhere."

"But he didn't take Molly into his equation." Greg added. "He didn't plan for anyone else to see him."

John turned to Molly. "So, we've got tall and blonde. Anything else you can give us?"

"Think about Sherlock, Molly," Greg said quietly. "What would _he_ have seen?"

"Well…" Molly thought for a minute. "All his clothes were fairly new, which tells us that he must have a good source of money."

"One would assume that means a high-paying job, right?" John asked.

Greg nodded. "You'd think so."

Molly continued. "However, we know that he's been hired by someone to kidnap Sherlock and drug Mycroft, so he most likely doesn't have a day job; he'd be too easily recognized."

"So…assassin? Hit man?" Greg asked.

"Something like that…" John trailed off.

Greg watched him closely. The look John was getting was similar to the one Sherlock got when he had a major breakthrough. "What is it, John?"

"Well…tell me if you think I'm being stupid…" John hesitated, then spoke. "What if…what if _no_ one's hired him to do it? I mean, Moriarty's dead. As far as I know, Sherlock didn't have any other enemies who would go to this much trouble to get at him." He leaned forward and leveled his gaze with both of them. "What exactly are we dealing with here?"

"Maybe some crazy stalker fan?" Greg suggested.

John looked at Greg incredulously. "Would a stalker go to all the trouble of poisoning a major government official just to kidnap Sherlock Holmes?" he shook his head. "No, we're dealing with something much bigger than that."

All this while, Molly was sitting in the corner with a confused look on her face. John turned to her. "What do you think, Molly?"

She looked up, startled, as if she had been in deep thought. "What?"

"About this…thing. Who's doing this?" Greg asked her.

"I just…" Molly trailed off. "He looked so…familiar."

John tilted his head. "Sounds like he had a pretty common face, though."

Molly raised her eyebrow, tilting her head. "Noooo…this isn't like that. You know how, sometimes you see someone on the street, and you're absolutely sure you've seen them before? That was it. I know I've seen him somewhere before…" she trailed off.

John and Greg shared a look. Was it just nerves, or was there something more to Molly's sudden revelation?

Suddenly, her eyes went wide. "Jim from IT…" she whispered.

John leaned in. "What?" he asked, alarmed.

Molly nodded, eyes on fire. "That's it. That's it!" she said, sitting up straight.

She turned to John. "John…do you remember the day that Sherlock was in the lab during the Carl Powers case?"

John nodded. "Yeah. You introduced us to your boyfriend. 'Jim from IT'…who turned out to be…Moriarty…"

Greg balked. "No…really?" he turned to Molly. "You dated Jim Moriarty?"

"Well, I didn't know who he was, not then!" she said defensively. "Anyways, a few days later we broke up. After…after I told him about Sherlock's deductions. You know…" she lowered her voice to a whisper. "The gay thing."

"Ah." John nodded.

"Well…a few weeks later, I met him. Again. Just…just randomly, on the street." She laughed, a high-pitched tension-filled laugh. "Strange place to meet Jim Moriarty, on the street."

John nodded, indicating that she should continue.

Molly looked around self-consciously. "Sherlock was right; he _was_ gay. He had another man with him. His boyfriend, in fact; he introduced me."

A look of understanding began to dawn on Greg's face. "And was this boyfriend the same man you saw today?"

Molly couldn't speak. She nodded, overcome.

John gently laid a hand on Molly's shoulder. "I know this is hard for you, Molly. Jesus, it's hard for _all_ of us." He hesitated slightly, then continued. "Molly…what was his name?"

Molly took a shuddering gasp, tears sliding down her face.

"Sebastian Moran."


	10. Problems

_A/N; I want to apologize for not updating in ages. My muse took a little leave of absence for a bit, but he's back now and better than ever *cue BAMF music*. Hopefully this extra long chapter will make up for the wait. If you want someone to thank for the return of my muse, thank Rainy-Days-And-Daydreams, who helped by listening to me ramble on about my many problems and bombarded me with amazing, inspirational Johnlock fanart :D _

_As always, thanks to all my followers, favoriters, reviewers, and readers. You guys are all awesome. *hands out chocolate peanut butter cookies of amazingness*_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

Sherlock woke up to blackness.

"Don't worry. Your eyes are completely fine, I promise."

_Blindfold, then._

He tried to speak, but there was a gag crudely stuffed in his mouth. His head was pounding, eliciting a groan from the weak detective.

"It'll stop hurting in a little bit."

Who was this voice?

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. Bet you can't deduce who I am."

He was right. For once in his life, Sherlock had no ideas whatsoever.

_Why am I not working? What's wrong with me?_

"Don't worry too much. Your eyes and touch have both been taken from you, not to mention the drugs that are probably still in your system; it's no wonder that you can't tell who I am." The voice paused for a few moments.

Sherlock coughed through the gag, becoming aware that his throat hurt.

"You were screaming for a while. Guess the drug gives nightmares…didn't know that 'til now."

_Who is this?_

_Damn it, Holmes, why can't you figure this out?_

Sherlock struggled against his bonds, trying in vain to loosen them.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you." The voice paused dramatically. "Bad things happen to people who try to escape me."

_Think, Sherlock, think._

_What happened before this?_

_"Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. You're not going to eat…you're going to __**burn**__. I'm going to burn the __**heart**__ out of you."_

Sherlock gasped.

"That's right, Mr. Holmes. I'm a friend of Mr. Moriarty's."

The blindfold was suddenly ripped off his face. Light flooded his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Finally, everything came into focus.

He was in a surprisingly normal looking bedroom, tied to a chair in the corner. In front of him stood a single man, tall and stern-looking.

Blonde, blue eyes, at least six feet, about one hundred and sixty pounds (mostly muscle, he noted as he looked up and down the man's figure). Military marksman, dishonorable discharge for…killing a fellow soldier?

_Colonel Sebastian Moran._

"Finally figured it out, have you?" Moran smirked. "Thought you'd get there eventually."

He pulled the gag out of Sherlock's mouth. "Go on, then, Mr. Holmes. Impress me with your superior intellect." He said it mockingly, as though he was assured of Sherlock's failure.

Sherlock took a breath and began to list his deductions. "Dishonorable discharge from the military? One can't find many of those nowadays. Given your age, height, weight, and other basic details I could narrow it down to a few men."

Moran looked amused. "Very good, Mr. Holmes. Though I'm not sure if you're as good as they say you are."

Sherlock's eyes darkened as he stared malevolently at the marksman. "I'm only just beginning, Mr. Moran."

Moran looked slightly unsettled. He turned his back and began to pace the room. "Continue."

"It's quite simple, actually. I knew from the moment I heard that phrase you uttered outside my room that this was something to do with Moriarty." Sherlock coughed. His throat was still sore.

"Moriarty, as I'm sure you know, doesn't have many henchmen who are as close to him as you were."

Moran stiffened. "What are you suggesting, Holmes?" he growled.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I'm not suggesting, I'm stating." He continued. "Now, why would Moriarty want you around? Because you were a good shot? Or something more?"

Moran stood stock still for a few moments, then smirked. He began to pace again. "Very good, Mr. Holmes. You've finally found out my little secret." A faraway look appeared in his eyes. "Yes, Jim Moriarty and I were lovers."

Moran turned to face Sherlock, a hollow look in his eyes. "Until you killed him, Mr. Holmes."

He turned and stared out the small window opposite them. He paused for a few moments, then spoke. "The day I got the news was the worst day of my life." He whipped around and glared fiercely at Sherlock. "That day, I vowed to avenge him, and end the bastard who killed my lover."

Moran leaned in close. "And guess what, Mr. Holmes? You were the one on that roof. The one who pushed Jim Moriarty off." He cackled softly. "You're that bastard."

Sherlock's head spun.

_Moran thinks it was me who threw Moriarty off the roof._

_Even though it was John._

Somewhere, deep in Sherlock's mind, a logical voice told him to explain to Moran who had really killed his beloved.

But he couldn't betray John, could he?

He could hear Mycroft's voice in his head.

**_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Remember that._**

Sherlock took a deep breath.

_I don't care anymore._

Sherlock looked up at Moran and opened his mouth.

"Yes, I pushed him off that roof." Sherlock spat. "And now the world is free of a criminal who could have ruined everything."

Moran's hand lashed out and Sherlock felt the sting of a hard slap on his cheek. The sniper grabbed him by the front of his hospital-issued tee shirt and violently lifted him into the air, chair and all. "Don't _ever_ say something like that in front of me again, or I can promise you a _long_, _painful_ death."

"I thought that's what I was getting anyways," Sherlock said in his best bored voice.

Moran shrugged. "More painful than is _planned_, that is," he said in a careless voice laced with an underlying tone of malice.

Sherlock tried not to shiver.

Moran clapped his hands together, composure regained. "Well, must be off. Guns to clean, people to snipe. I should be back in a few days." He headed for the door. "I'll send a little note to that brother of yours and his pet inspector for you, shall I? Maybe a video conference."

And with that Moran was gone.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as he remembered Moran's last words.

**_"I'll send a little note to that brother of yours and his pet inspector for you, shall I?"_**

_He must not know about John._

That, at least, was something.

* * *

Greg knocked gently on the door, Molly and John right behind him.

"Mickey?" he asked in a soft voice. "Can we come in?"

"Enter," said the ever-imperious voice of Mycroft Holmes.

The three of them shuffled into the room, gathering around Mycroft's bed. Greg took the chair closest, pushing it right up next to Mycroft, and took the man's hand in his.

"How're you feeling, Mickey?" Greg asked anxiously. "Do you need anything?"

Mycroft shook his hand out of Greg's and gave him a cold look. "I'm perfectly fine, Gregory. Do stop being so clingy and worried." He folded his hands together and looked around at them as Greg's jaw went slack. "I assume you have a reason for being here."

John looked over at Greg, who was staring down at his feet, obviously not wanting to talk any more. John spoke. "Mycroft, Sherlock's been…well, he's been taken."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, John, I am well aware of the activities that you and Sherlock have been up to at late. Practically the whole hospital knows you two are intimately involved."

John blushed deeply as Molly giggled nervously. "That's not really what I meant."

"Though they _are_ shagging," Greg spoke up, trying to clarify as well as lighten the mood.

Mycroft shot Greg a freezing glare. "Hilarious, Inspector," he said icily.

Greg's eyes went wide with hurt and surprise at the use of his formal title. "Mycroft, what's wrong? Good god, you're acting like you don't even…like we're not…" he broke off awkwardly.

"Gregory, this is neither the time nor place to discuss our relationship. Please try and behave appropriately." John and Molly both cringed at the words and the look they brought to Greg's face. Mycroft turned to them. "John, please continue. What did you mean?"

"Sherlock's been kidnapped, again. We've confirmed that the man behind it is Moriarty's former lover…a Sebastian Moran." John stated firmly. "We came to ask you if you had ever heard of him."

Mycroft sucked in a breath and nodded. "Ah, yes. I am well acquainted with Mr. Moran's story."

John nodded. "Could…do you feel well enough to tell us?"

"I'm afraid there's not much to tell, Dr. Watson. Bright young man, strong, smart, and a brilliant marksman. However, six months into his service, he shot and killed a fellow soldier. He wasn't imprisoned because of lack of evidence, but he was given dishonorable discharge. A few months after his discharge, he disappeared from all records and seemed to have left the face of the earth."

John raised his eyebrows. "And now we know where the bastard's been all these years." He looked around at the others. "With Moriarty."

Mycroft nodded. "I always wondered what ever happened to him. He had one of the best marksman scores I've seen in a long time." He sighed. "If only it could have been used for good."

John nodded. Silence filled the room for a few moments. Then, John stood up, Molly right behind. "Molly and I'll try to find something to give us a clue where he might have gone. Does Sherlock still have his phone?"

Mycroft tilted his head. "I'm not sure. It might be in his room." His Blackberry buzzed on the nightstand and he picked it up, sliding it open. Without looking up, he spoke. "Anthea will help you."

Greg stood up. "I'll go with you," he said woodenly. He turned to Mycroft. "L-let me know if you need anything?"

Mycroft didn't respond. "John, Molly," he said by way of a goodbye.

Greg's eyes widened, then he looked down at the floor in sad acceptance and shoved past John and Molly, heading down the hallway. His face was blank as he passed, eyes sad.

If John hadn't been mistaken, there was a small tear sliding its way down his cheek.


End file.
